


Effable Excerpts

by MsLanna



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLanna/pseuds/MsLanna
Summary: Okay, alright. Another drabble dump. You know the dri-Well, actually, you probably don't because GO is sobloodyfar from everything I write so.Each chapter is a self-contained ficlet. There is no overarching story line. If, against all odds, ficlets belong with each other, that will be clearly marked in the title.Any additional tags will be in the summary.Warnings? What warnings? This will be a burning heap of fluff is what it'll be.





	1. Don't look Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That moment in the ex-nunnery? Where Crowley looks away first?  
> Yeah. Me, too.  
> 

Maybe it was on purpose despite everything. Getting violently shoved against a wall was not pleasant. There were indeed a great many things Aziraphale could think of that were more pleasant. And yet until now each promise he had made to himself to be more careful about it, had failed.

It should not be so hard now, should it? Do not call the demon Crowley nice or kind in any way or variety. He did not like that. Obviously. As much as Aziraphale disliked being shoved around, especially up against walls.

And yet, here they were. Because why did Crowley have to be so considerate? He was a demon for crying out loud. Killing people or having people kill each other was his _job_. Miraculous escapes were a cop-out. It screamed for being called out as the kindness it was.

And being good and kind was not a bad thing, after all. If you were an angel. Which Cowley, admittedly, was not entirely any longer or had been for quite a while. A shame really seeing the good  in him still and not buried very deep down either.

"Shut it!" Their noses touched as Crowley grabbed him by the collar. The cloth bunched up dreadfully but it held.

Aziraphale had been worried. The coat had gone through enough for one day. And it had been very kind, again, of Crowley to remove that dreadful stain. Of course Aziraphale still felt it there, underneath. But now it was buried under the touch of Crowley's magic.

Crawley's knuckles were dangerously close to Aziraphale's face. So it was best to just hold still. Aziraphale did want to avoid an incident there. Also, Crowley did have a rather strong grip. Something that seemed to slip Aziraphale's mind too easily. He really needed to work on not complimenting the demon on kindness.

Yellow eyes bored into his through the dark glasses. And in the funny way of human bodies requiring air and breathing to live, Aziraphale could feel the words bounce of his skin as Crowley spoke. Surely that wasn't meant to be – nice. Aziraphale pressed his palms against the wall.

Being around a demon certainly had never been meant to be nice either. And it should be deeply troubling that it was - exceedingly so - especially when compared to the interaction with fellow angels. Who did not understand earth. Or care for it. Or its inhabitants. But were excellent material for thought when pondering the actual and immediate was – troublesome.

"I'm a demon, I'm not nice."

Maybe it was bluster. A cunning display to fool hell's spies. Those could indeed be lurking everywhere. Precaution was wise. But what if Crowley actually believed it? Despite the ample proof to the contrary? How could he be so kind and so blind?

It was a shame that Crowley couldn't see what he saw. Goodness and kindness hidden behind a thin shield of evil. Both were not very obvious but and more so when Aziraphale was around. The main reason Aziraphale had been sticking around so closely. Obviously.

Obviously.

They knew each other since the first day Aziraphale had set foot on earth. God had certainly had had a plan when she made their paths cross. For some time Aziraphale had entertained the idea of redeeming Crowley. A very appropriate, good and heavenly plan. That naturally required him to stay in close vicinity of his object of redemption.

It had started the compliments calling out Crowley's kindness. It had also started the occasional assault. Back to the wall, nose to nose, breath on skin - they were rarely this close. Heaven surely had to frown upon it. Of course they could not be faulted by either side, if it was done in aggression.

And though demons were meant to be aggressive, it did not have to, did it? Aziraphale's mind most unhelpfully came up with a deluge of scenarios that did no necessitate aggression to achieve closeness. His fingertips burrowed into the wall behind him.

"I'm never nice," Crowley went on standing close as ever, as if determined to fuse their noses together. "Nice is a four letter word. I will not have-"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," a woman's voice interrupted. "Sorry to break up an intimate moment. Can I help you?"

Crowley turned to look at her.

It was almost like the day at the gate, when God had averted her attention. A relief and a pain in one. I was most likely inappropriate to compare these two, but the intensity was the same. A true failure on his part for sure, but not as saddening as having Crowley avert his gaze.

Not that his profile wasn't something to look at. Or something Aziraphale didn't know by heart. His eyes lingered on the side of the glasses, peering at the intense gaze behind them as it faded and Crowley returned it to the outside world.

It was the right thing to do, of course. They were here on a mission. They had to stop the apocalypse, save humanity and the planet. Still, just a moment more, just the fraction of a second. Because the world was ending. And once it did moments like these were over forever. Aziraphale did not want them to be over. Not this one, not now, not ever.

Reluctantly he followed Crowley's gaze. More time, that was what they needed. More time and more time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Shouting into the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is actually calling Aziraphale angel on purpose

Of course he knew. He's not stupid. And, unlike one very specific angel, Crowley was also not dense. There had been no reason, really, to fall and earth, as many pleasures it had to offer, was really only the background for the one reason to stay.

Over the millennia the demon Crowley had tried numerous ways to cope with his unhealthy addiction. None of them had worked because they all relied on replacing the addictive thing with something healthy and normal. But there was nothing like Aziraphale neither in hell, nor on earth and certainly not in heaven. As time dragged on that became only more clear.

But as heavenly and good as Aziraphale might be, he was also, well, dense. And ever so slow. It was probably God's idea of a good joke. A personalised sort of torture and hell that Crowley took with him wherever he went.

Shouting into the void was one way to alleviate it. The void in this case being humanity. They had short lives and even shorter attention spans. Calling an angel an angel in their vicinity did not register as the revelation it should have been. It did, however, register in the regions that compelled humans to form very tight bonds with other humans for the very short time they had.

Aziraphale, oh Aziraphale was dense as a brick wall. But the humans, they got it. A sea of tiny lives, over in a blink. A wafting, everchanging void. But they knew. For only a moment it was known and that was all that mattered.

It helped. Because for one moment Crowley was not alone with those immense emotions. It was a short reprieve but that was okay. Aziraphale was dense and slow, but he was moving.


	3. On the Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Aziraphale did that pinning-against-the-wall?

So the end of the world had been averted, they had the rest of eternity and the champagne went to Aziraphale's head like nobody's business because he was jut so damn happy. It was a joy to watch. The rosy face acquired an additional shade of blush, the eyes unfocussed slightly as he went on about how amazing the world they had saved was.

The stars were on and about by the time they made their way back through London, on foot. Just because it took longer. And they could walk side by side. Could walk very closely at each other's side. The only thing thwarting actual hand-holding was Aziraphale's gesturing as he talked and his annoying if adorable habit to clasp his hands awkwardly before his belly.

But they had time. The angel radiated like a sun, beaming in Crowley's direction ever so often. He had somehow come to their visit of the former nunnery. Crowley had lost track, knowing his input was not necessary for the most part, also the dimples were tremendously distracting.

"I guess," he mumbled, searching his pockets for the keys.

"I never saw why you would do that," Aziraphale continued, following inside. "I mean, there are always other ways."

"Sometimes there just isn't," Crowley said, hoping that covered all necessary ground.

"Oh."

One of those soft ones that melted your bones. Crowley held upright by sheer willpower.

The next moment, he found himself pinned against the wall. Aziraphale's face was mere inches away, still coming closer. As was all of him. Crowley swallowed.

"So this is what it feels like." Aziraphale sounded thoughtful. "Maybe I am not possessing the necessary amount of aggression."

"You're doing fine," Crowley got out. Their noses touched and those blue eyes were too close for comfort and intent on him.

"Ah, good." Aziraphale smiled. "Then you should realise how that is very uncomfortable. I don't know why I let you get away with it."

There were a million thoughts rushing through Crowley's head why he had gotten away with it. Even the most dense and oblivious angel had to realise _somet_ hing was afoot under these conditions. Aziraphale may not have admitted it for the longest time, but it sure as hell had been there. How had the angel managed to keep his hands to himself? For Crowley it was indecision on whether too put them over Aziraphale's hands or go directly for the waist.

Unhelpfully, Aziraphale shook his head slightly, rubbing their noses against each other. "I do really not see how this is an irreplaceable part of interaction."

As was his habit when making a point, Aziraphale tilted his head slightly backwards. Crowley followed, lips opening in anticipation - when Aziraphale let go and took a step backwards. He fussed about Crowley's shirt and scarf. It was nice but a substitute for where they had been moments ago.

Crowley caught his hands in his, stopping him short. "We better get to the drinks."

"Alright." Aziraphale smiled, his face lighting up. "You said you had one of those new Distillers Editions."

Crowley nodded with a growl. If he didn't get his hands on some scotch extremely soon, he'd put them on the angel and there was no telling how that would end as yet. And they had all the time in the world now. He grinned as he picked up two glasses. It shouldn't take too much work to make Aziraphale repeat that little manoeuvre. And then, he would not get away so easily.


	4. Dining with the Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Aziraphale even eating all the time? Replacement activity? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, the title is wasted on this ficlet, please steal it for some better fic.

Aziraphale didn't know when exactly he had started consuming human food. He had seen the humans do it all the time and often enjoy it immensely. It seemed only natural to find out what the fuss about it was.

There were two things immensely influencing the taste of food, he soon learnt. One, the preparation. And this did not only mean the quality of the ingredients used but also, and very much so, the amount of love poured into making a dish. The other was company.

Finding that out had been kind of an accident really. After all he had clearly not asked Crowley to dine with him. So ending up at Petronius' restaurant together had been completely the demons' doing. And there it had started.

Crowley hadn't eaten anything. He had just ordered a cup of wine and watched. Aziraphale had not anticipated to be observed so closely. It was, well, unpleasant was the wrong word. Strange. New. Unexpected. And the oysters had been fabulous. They had been so excellent indeed, that Aziraphale had returned not so much later to eat them again.

That had been a great disappointment. It wasn't that the food was bad. It just lacked that special something it had definitely possessed the last time Aziraphale had been there. Several more attempts yielded the same results. Either the quality of Patronius' oysters had dropped dramatically, or.

Very careful research had slowly unearthed the unlikely pattern. Even if Crowley was not himself participating in the ritual of eating, having him along and watching was improving the whole experience. It did explain the humans' tendency to eat in groups.

The very careful research had either not been careful enough or the results had been damning, but it had led to what resembled a habit of dining with the demon. Crowley didn't seem to mind. Though he never actually ate something himself. After a few encouragements, Aziraphale stopped trying. Crowley had reasons of his own to dine out. And being a demon, how could an angel understand?

And they usually went for something to drink afterwards. An activity Crowley did participate in. In unhealthy amounts had he not been a demon. It had become almost a ritual. Or maybe the drinks just tasted better to Crowley in company. As the food did to Aziraphale.

Demonic observation was a strange spice to throw into food. But by now Aziraphale was unwilling to do without it. Oh, food was exemplary even without fiendish intervention. It just never was quite where dining with Crowley was. Maybe it was just that you could not converse with food.

Or maybe it was just the way that the demon stared at him intently, stroking his chin from time to time. There was definitely hunger involved. Aziraphale did not mull over how second-had consumption of food might sate it, though.

Fortunately, that was not his problem to solve. He only had to enjoy the food. Aziraphale put down the fork with a sigh of pure bliss. Smiling, he turned to Crowley. "So, what are you in the mood for now?"

A last flash of hunger flickered over Crowley's features, almost to fast to be seen. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if he did have to think about this. "Alcohol," he finally replied.

A tried and true answer. The expected one and one Aziraphale always had a special stash put away for in the book shop. It was a happy thought topping up an already great mood. "I say," he dabbed his mouth with the napkin, "there is a bottle of Glenavon Special Liqueur Whisky that has found its way into my shop."

"Aren't you supposed to drink that on a special occasion?" Crowley drawled.

Well, probably. But it was a special occasion was it not?

Aziraphale didn't put his finger on why exactly that might be. It just was. And he would be able to convince Crowley of this on their way. He always did. And when the demon indulged his proclivity for fancy foods, it was only right to return the favour in drinks.

Still smiling he nodded at Crowley. "Opening the bottle will certainly be a special occasion, don't you say?"

It was as easy as that. They looked at each other for a moment. Then Crowley shrugged and got up. With a last, lingering look at the remains of his feast, Aziraphale followed. Leaving the small restaurant behind, the angel wondered why he was feeling peckish again already.


	5. If I asked you now…?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learnt that angels asking for things will always be rejected. But now that the apocalypse didn’t happen and he has his very own demon, is that not something that should be unlearnt?

One thing that heaven taught the angel Aziraphale, or at least tried to teach him, the success being debatable, was that angels did not ask for things. Requests by angels were always rejected. Sometimes, according to an inscrutable system of ranking, they were also mocked. Angels were very good at mocking with words that would have made good praise if used sincerely.

It was a working system an in general, Aziraphale yielded to it. He did not ask for things. He did not ask for small things and thus they were not rejected. Sometimes, when hope and the belief in the goodness of all angels overcame Aziraphale, he did ask for things. Important things. Requests that were all rejected with varying degrees of mocking involved.

So it was only natural not to ask Crowley for anything. It wouldn't do, asking things of a demon anyway. And also, how Aziraphale would bear a rejection in this very specific case was not a scenario he wanted to dwell upon. Ever. Also, he did not _have_ to ask. A pointed look or two was always enough to prompt Crowley into action. The demon was exceptionally good at anticipating what Aziraphale was asking. Exceptionally good. It was almost worrying.

After the apocalypse didn't happen after all, Aziraphale wondered if not asking for anything was maybe not the best way to go about things, though. Not because he had difficulties communicating what he wanted. These days he rarely wanted for anything. But the feeling that he could not ask anything ever did not sit with him right. It was wrong.

So he would do something about it. Somehow. Somewhen. It was not as if Crowley would stop liking him, just because he asked for something, right? Right. It was an argument that went in circles through his head and was rather unpleasant. Without any proof there would be no end to though.

The first time, was in the Ritz. They were having brunch and it was a wonderful day. Aziraphale felt elated, incredibly happy and strong. Strong enough to give it a try. It was nothing really. Just a few words, he had practised for quite some time and was, in theory, ready. Actually, his palms were getting sweaty. The heart rate was also on an unchecked acceleration.

"Would you pass me the butter, my dear?" There it was, hanging between them like an iron wall.

Crowley tilted his head slightly, but did as asked. No questioning, no nothing.

Aziraphale licked his lips, making an effort to beat down the heart rate and hide the shaking of his hand as he accepted the butter. That was difficult because Crowley was making an effort to have their hands touch as he handed over the requested item.

If he did notice the shaking of Aziraphale's hand, Crowley did not comment on it. Neither on the highly flustered expression and the angel's immediate need to look somewhere very else and have about a gallon of Valium tea to calm down.

It took longer than expect to calm down. Everything was tingling. Crowley's presence increased the feeling. But he did not say no. And he did not mock. As far as proof went, that was a promising start.

Still it was hard work to remember actually asking. And Aziraphale made quite certain that it were small things only, irrelevant, things where a 'no' would not hurt. Which was progress but not really solving the problem.

With each small 'Yes' his confidence grew, though. As did the great pile of small affirmations.

The first time he asked Crowley to turn down the music in the Bentley, he got a raised brow. But no opposition. And softer music. The first time he asked Crowley to change the subject, big yellow eyes blinked at him slowly. But there was no objection. The first time he asked Crowley, if he could maybe not- Aziraphale never finished the question because Crowley took his hand, running his thumb down the angel's palm.

"This is difficult for you." His tone carried a ton of not-understanding. Crowley held Aziraphale's glance for a long moment, shaking his head slowly. But when he let go of his angel's hand, he did not. And Aziraphale, almost panting, profusely uncomfortable and about to bolt under the upcoming rejection, folded like a lawn chair.

"You needn't be so flustered about it." Crowley waved his hand vaguely. "It's not as if the world ends even if I say no."

That was the wrong thing to say entirely as Pavlov's panicked bells set off in Aziraphale's head and he instantaneously decided to never ask for anything ever again. It was an excellent decision and held for about half an hour.

Crowley had decided in what was probably meant to be in a helpful way, to just not anticipate Aziraphale's wishes any longer and patiently wait until the angel had put his desire into words ready to send across the silence. The arrangement worked well enough. Crowley simply had to remember not to tap his foot, or his fingers while waiting when Aziraphale was phrasing an especially difficult question like 'can you return my pocket watch?' or 'did you use the first edition of 'Look Homeward Angel' to keep the fridge from wobbling?'

After a week of such highly entertaining incidents, the rash promise not to ask for things was forgotten again. When the asking became normal again, Crowley began to come up with increasingly inventive ways to almost say no. He never did, though. Aziraphale appreciated it very much.

In the end there was only one kind of question Aziraphale never asked because a 'no' would have been the worst experience ever, even before unplanned discoropration, inquiries after the flaming sword by god herself and the apocalypse. Actually, the apocalypse had not been that bad all things considered. The only thing ranking higher in the worst things ever list was Crowley leaving. Obviously.

Not that he would. Also obviously. It was that kind of thought that finally convinced Aziraphale to try and ask for anything. Because what was the worst that could happen? Crowley was not going anywhere. Even if faced with such – requests. Probably even less likely if faced. Somehow, that did not make things easier.

Aziraphale mulled over this fact more than was wise. As he did now, when what he should be doing was enjoying a nice walk through St. James Park with Crowley. The sun was warm, the sky was blue. It was a perfect day. Fit for the occasion. The occasion not being, as one might assume, the six-month anniversary of the apocalypse not happening or Crowley gifting his angel with a signed first edition.

Instead, he was slowing down and fell behind a little. Crowley noticed, not the first time on this day and let out a string of almost words that amount to 'what now?'. It was the moment Aziraphale decided to act.

He coughed up a nervous little sound. "Could you hold this for a moment?"

Crowley did not even look back as he held out his hand, likely expecting the book he had only just handed over to his angel over a very nice lunch. He stopped short when instead, his hand found that of Aziraphale. In turn the angel almost ran into his demon, quite focussed on the successful manoeuvre and unable to take his eyes of the proof for that.

The demon's eyes started out at the same place but wandered up to Aziraphale's face that was almost pressed into his arm. "Look at you," he drawled. "Who taught you that?"

To Aziraphale's great relief, he sounded immensely pleased.

"Just experimenting, really," he replied flustered. He might have been holding on to Crowley's hand a lot tighter than necessary and called for, but the demon did not seem to mind. He just returned the pressure evenly, making sure their fingers were securely intertwined.

Crowley's face morphed into that grin Aziraphale had first seen in Rome and which he had learnt to read and appreciate it for what I was only much later. Mission accomplished indeed. His smile lost its strain.

"So." He stepped to Crowley's side again. "You were saying?"

Crowley was not sure what he had been saying, what subject they had been on or for a split second, even where they had been. But with his hand finally holding on to that of his angel, what did it any of it matter?


	6. Oh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason Aziraphale mostly ignores Crowley's confession in the pub after the bookshop burnt down.

When Aziraphale finally found Crowley he was baffled. The demon was as drunk as a skunk, sitting in a pub doing nothing. When the world was about to end and he had been inconveniently discorporated. How could the demon be here – _moping_!

"Aziraphale." Crowley said it so softly, as if he didn't believe it but was scared to burst the bubble anyway. Then he lifted his glasses, squinting. "Are you there?" That sounded more like the demon Aziraphale knew.

"Good question. Not certain," he replied. "Never done this before. Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you." The offended tone did not match the still unbelieving face of Crowley. Not even the dark glasses returned to cover his eyes could mask it. He was holding on to a full bottle of Whisky.

"I'm afraid I've rather made a mess of things," Aziraphale admitted. A much bigger mess then necessary apparently. Crowley was very definitely in a state. "Did you go to Alpha Centauri?"

Maybe that was it. Crowley had left and the stars were a better place than he had ever imagined and now Aziraphale came barrelling in, intruding, invading, upsetting the peace. In that case there was not much hope Crowley'd help out.

Aziraphale didn't finish the thought. Instead he tried to smile. Crowley had really wanted to go, deserved to go. Maybe at least one of them had gotten lucky and a little bit happy.

"Nah, I changed my mind." The words sounded as if they had to squeeze themselves past a barrier. Crowley but the bottle down. "Stuff happened."

That was definitely an understatement. Yet the way Crowley said it, made clear he wasn't going on about the impeding end of the world, though.

This was personal and it was destroying him in a way not even holy water could achieve. Aziraphale had never seen Crowley give up before. Oh, he bragged about how little he cared, evil fiend that he was. But it was easy to see through that bluster. Crowley hadn't cared that he saw through it either. They had their arrangement and ways to enjoy the world. None of which mattered. Crowley looked devastated. He sounded like it, too.

Crowley was not crying. He was definitely doing his best not to.

But Aziraphale knew him. They had spent the last six thousand years more or less in each other's company. More as time dragged on and it was so comfortable to have somebody who knew. Somebody who remembered and related. Somebody who understood and cared. Pretended to care. The difference mattered only in the moments of doubt and those had become less even if they never really vanished.

"I lost my best friend." The words broke apart as soon as they left Crowley's lips.

Aziraphale felt ready to follow. Oh.

Oh indeed.

It took Aziraphale's breath away. It didn't matter how Crowley came to think he had left for good when he had just been discorporated. But his reaction to it hurt ineffably.

_He loves you._

If Aziraphale had had a body, he would have had to remind himself to breathe now. Crowley actually did love him. No demon-y wiles, no obligatory tempting the enemy. Crowley actually – Aziraphale pressed his lips together.

Crowley was a demon for heaven's sake. And what great feather in a demon's cap than to have seduced an angel of the Lord to wicked ways? Wasn’t that worth the longest game? Yes, it had been very nice, the company, the conversations, the witty exchanges and drunken debates. But the only way to ensure there was no end to them, was to not give in.

What good was a successfully tempted angel to a demon? None. So Aziraphale had played the game. Not because it was a good game or he liked it but because it was the only way to make sure Crowley did not leave. Plausible deniability was a lot easier to bear than accepting the truth.

The fucking truth.

It was impossible to see his friend so distraught. Impossible. There was so much, so many things – Aziraphale blinked. He had a lot to make up to. Maybe not exactly six thousand years. But the world was ending and if the world ended there would be no time for any of it. Ever.

"I'm so sorry to hear it," he got out. It wasn't much. It was nothing at all really. But if he let go now, nothing would stop the end of the world. And then it would be all over. Forever. He could not risk that. Another item on the pile of things he'd have to atone for.

He would push through this, now, painfully, because a wrong word, a wrong glance would send him spiralling into orbit around Crowley and that would get nothing done. No second chance to get it right. And Aziraphale wanted that second chance. That second attempt to get it right and not hold back because maybe, just maybe, it was all just a game, despite all proof to the contrary.

It'd be alright. There'd be time. He'd make it so. He'd have to. Aziraphale let his eyes wander, dragging him from the maelstrom that was the need to comfort his friend. _My_ friend. _My_ demon. How dare anybody hurt him? How dare I? It would all have to wait. Aziraphale forced his lips to move.

"Listen," he heard himself say on autopilot. He _had_ to knuckle through this. If not, what good would anything be? If there was to be an eternity and he was to spend it apart from Crowley, or worse with the demon _dead_ – what good was anything at all then?

Nothing. Not a single flying fuck.


	7. The Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That scene in the church with the violins. And what happened after. (Until the two idiots fell into a gobsmacked paralysis for a decade or two or something similar. ^,^' )

This was it. Aziraphale was not quite sure how to take the fact, but there was really no way around it. He had screwed up royally. And this time, there would be no miraculous rescue, oh no. This time there would be paperwork. He shuddered at the thought. Heaven frowned on unplanned discorporation. The amount of work it would be to be issued another body and be able to return to earth. Decades.

But he had nobody to blame but himself. It was not as if he couldn't have changed the meeting place. But no. So here they were in a godda- god-blessed church. Which was part of the problem because it was the one place demons did not go.

And he had been played for a sucker by the Nazis, handed over his beloved books and was faced with paperwork. Also the prospect of being not on earth for quite a while which was distressing not only because of abandoning the bookshop though he was far from admitting that abandoning somebody else would be far more painful.

Aziraphale became aware that something interesting was happening behind him that involved a lot of huffing and puffing. The eyes of all Nazis converged there as well. When he turned the most ridiculous, also most painful, sight greeted his eyes: Crowley was trying to saunter down the aisle nonchalantly.

Of course he could not. This was consecrated ground, ground no demon should tread on. It had to hurt dreadfully. Accordingly, the saunter turned into a most ridiculous case of hot foot. Crowley was almost skipping down the aisle, trying to keep as many of his feet in the air at any given time as possible. Given his human form, that was not very many.

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hissed. This was a holy place, no place for demons. What if the Almighty decided to take offence? What if this was the end of Crowley? His own discorporation he could deal with, annoying and time consuming as it would be, but Crowley eradicated? It didn't bear thinking about.

"Stopping you from getting into trouble," Crowley replied.

That was so him. Assuming the worst about any situation Aziraphale was in. Though this time, Crowley was actually correct. Again. Aziraphale did not like to admit it. So instead he accused Crowley of having the Nazis work for him. Something the demon rejected whole-heartedly. And brought up, instead, how he was going to save Aziraphale and himself.

It was not that much of a miracle really. Aziraphale was also on home turf here, gaining strength by the sacredness that was hurting Crowley. The only problem was the basin of holy water. It was too close for comfort. A bomb exploding the building would also splash the holy water everywhere. Everywhere, unfortunately, including Crowley.

So when the bomb did fall, there was nothing else, Aziraphale though about than not splash Crowley with a single drop of that dangerous substance. Putting his own survival almost at a second. The stones were no problem, bulky debris easily diverted to places he and Crowley did not occupy. The holy water though, now that was a different story. It was holy, it was going where it wanted and it wanted to be everywhere.

Aziraphale almost felt bad, evil sinful, when he kept the water in check, allotting places to be, forbidding places to go. But if it had to be done to keep Crowley safe, it would get done. It wasn't even a question.

When it was all over and the dust had settled, there was a small wave of exhilaration running through Aziraphale. Crowley had survived. Not a single drop of holy water out of place. Not a one piece of rubble on his body. Aziraphale let out a long breath. Then he took off his hat. "That was very kind of you."

"Shut up." Crowley put his sunglasses back on, having cleaned the worst of the dust from them. He was the closest to Not Smiling™ you could get when actually smiling but definitely not showing that.

"Well, it was," Aziraphale insisted. "No paperwork for a start."

It was then that it occurred to Aziraphale that he might have forgotten about something. That things had been on the scene important to him but forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Oh, the books!"

It hit him like cold water. How could that ever have happened to him? Those books were his everything. Those books ranked higher in his life than anything. Anything except – Aziraphale stopped himself as he glanced at Crowley. "Oh. I forgot all the books. Oh, they'll be all be blown to-" Aziraphale stopped short when Crowley handed him the Nazi's briefcase.

"A little demonic miracle of my own," the demon said, his face straight. Crowley turned away quickly, walking toward the former main entrance.

Aziraphale looked from the briefcase to the departing demon's and back. It was one thing for him to forget about his most beloved possession in favour of a demon. That was uncalled for, unwarranted, wrong and the only thing to do.

And yet here they were. His books. His beloved possessions. Unscathed, not a scorch mark on them. By demonic miracle, courtesy of Crowley. It didn't make sense. It made too much sense. A history of scenes lined up in Aziraphale's head, parading around the knowledge he could have acquired sooner.

Oh.

Aziraphale didn't let his jaw drop further than a small, perfectly round 'oh'. So that was it. Simple enough, really. Also, not even painful. Just – miraculous.

He followed Crowley out of the ruined church. Aziraphale should probably have mourned the loss of a sacred place more. Still, there were many masons and priests on earth to build many new churches, ministers, cathedrals, and whathave you. But there was only one Crowley.

They drove in silence. Aziraphale stealing a glance at his friend from time to time. It was impossible to tell where the demon was looking behind his ridiculous glasses though. Maybe it didn't matter. Aziraphale cradled his briefcase tightly. Demonic miracle. That stupid bastard. As if turning up in a church wasn't miraculous enough.

"Well," Crowley drawled when the arrived, sprawled over the driver's seat like an invitation.

Aziraphale glanced up from his briefcase briefly. Well, indeed. "How about," he hesitated, taking in the fiends figure, "a nightcap?"

Aziraphale didn't like the high pitch the question took halfway through the second word, but it had been a long, intense night. "I have some brandy-"

"You got it." Crowley's grin lit up. You could never tell with those glasses but that grin – it was something else in itself.

Aziraphale nodded to himself as he got out and opened the door to the bookshop. It was one of the few buildings miraculously still standing in London. He found the brandy in the back room, glasses and then Crowley lounging on the couch already. He smiled. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

For a while they just sat, sipping the brandy in silence. There was so much to say, Aziraphale didn't know where to begin. Not to mention that Crowley would probably get angry every second point he would be making.

"That was very brave of you," he finally said, hiding behind the small glass as well as possible.

Crowley snorted.

"It was," Aziraphale insisted. "That was consecrated ground, Crowley. Demons can't just-"

"Eh, just a bit warm under the feet," the demon cut him off. "Nothing to shout about, really. Hell's making a bigger deal of it than it is."

Aziraphale watched the elaborate shrug, knowing his friend was lying. Not that Crowley would ever admit it. He could not be seen going around doing good deeds now, could he? Much less for an angel. Aziraphale drooped. There was always that. And yet Crowley had just walked into a church for him. Saved him. Saved his _books_.

Aziraphale gulped down the substantial rest of his brandy in one big swallow, cherishing the fire burning his throat in a pain that was purely physical. Such a relief. But only a short reprieve. He forced a smile and slipped from the couch, taking hold of one of Crowley's feet.

The demon twitched but did not, as such, pull away.

Now Aziraphale was faced with the problem of removing a shoe that was not there. Rather, the demon had just made his feet appear to be snakeskin shoes. Aziraphale shook his head slowly. "You did not."

Instead of a reply, Crowley just harrumphed and took another sip of brandy.

It wasn't bad per se. The sacred ground had only touched the soles of Crowley's feet but they did look battered, scabbed, burnt and badly healed over. Aziraphale pressed his lips together tightly. His fault. Also, naturally that of Crowley for not actually wearing shoes ever, but yes, his fault. For meeting in a church. For thinking he was above needing intervention.

Crowley held very still. Maybe a subtle sign for the discomfort this was causing. Aziraphale blinked to clear his mind. It worked barely acceptably. Then he ran his hand up the sole of Crowley's right foot, healing the burns and scabs, removing the pain and its sources. The demon relaxed in his hold.

It should very likely not have made Aziraphale so happy. But it did. And there was still the matter of the second foot which was easier captured and held between gentle fingers. It was not a big task at all. It could have been done a lot faster. But it was perfect penance.

Aziraphale remembered the pain Crowley had to go through just walking into that church. And all that for what? Him? Not worth it. Not worth it by far and not easily made up for. So Aziraphale took his time. And if Crowley minded, he did not complain.

In the end it was done. Two whole and sound feet, a few scars remained and snake scales scattered over them but that was only to be expected. It was unexpectedly difficult to let go again. Aziraphale looked at the foot cradled in his hands.

It was the worst of all ideas and the only one on his mind. So Aziraphale bent down, closed his eyes and just yielded. The skin of Crowley's instep was warm and soft under his lips. It should not have been that intense. It was. It was fine. The world could burn for tomorrow.

He opened his eyes, looking up to find Crowley in a stuttering stammer. A stammer Aziraphale had no answer to.


	8. Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acts of service vs. - well what exactly? The world may never know.  
> Why Aziraphale keeps not really asking asking for things and why Crowley keeps granting.

They did not see each other as often as Aziraphale would have liked. Any aspiration to change that was nipped in the bud by his constant worry that heaven or hell found out about their arrangement after all. Heaven had harsh punishments for such behaviour without a doubt, but hell? Hell did not dally with punishments in such instances.

Which made deniability paramount. The thought of losing Crowley now, after such a long time, after he finally, they finally, well something was final. And Aziraphale wanted to keep it that final, thank you very much. It had taken him long enough to accept that he did indeed like the demon Crowley and not in that general angelic way of loving absolutely everything because it was your job.

Crowley was not work. Well, sometimes he was a piece of work, but not in ways that concerned Aziraphale personally. It should probably concern him professionally in his agency as angel of the Lord. But the Lord was checking on the deeds on earth even less than head office did.

It was difficult as ever to love Crowley. Aziraphale was still an angel and Crowley was still, well a demon. Things might have been somewhat easier if he _had_ turned into an aardvark over the years.

So Aziraphale did his best to keep what concerned him about Crowley personally and what his stance was officially well apart. Or not so well. Probably very badly by now, but who was keeping score of that even any more? Nobody, that's who. And yet deniability felt paramount.

The last six years had been the most enjoyable so far. Holding down something of a day job that was not almost-book-dealing had been a challenge. In return, he had gotten so see Crowley each day. There had even been _interactions_. Aziraphale was loth to admit those excited him. Seeing Crowley did enough to light up any day, but interactions – oh, those were exquisite.

Seeing the end coming had not been pleasant and it had caused him some anxiety. But Warlock showed no signs at all to be evil, or good for that matter. The plan seemed to work perfectly. Which was, honesty, just another little bonus on top of seeing his demon each day.

And then it had turned out they were tutoring the wrong boy, the world was going to end after all, and Aziraphale would lose his best friend to the war if they could not find the real Antichrist. Within two days.

The prospect to lose absolutely everything within two days scared Aziraphale more than he admitted. Crowley was right about sushi and music and bookshops. What he did not say, what he did not _have_ to say, was it would be the end of them as well. No more arrangement. No more accidental meetings. No more eating extraordinary food because he was accompanied by his best friend. No more their side.

So he had agreed, naturally, to a combined venture to find the real Antichrist and then, somehow stop the whole Armageddon business. At least Crowley remembered where to start with their search. Tadfield didn't look any more charming than any other rural place Aziraphale had had to see.

There was an aura about it though. He could about smell the love in the air, feel it hum in the ground. It was, in this respect, a very special place. The last thing he expected was an attack. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley jolt backwards, then he was hit in the back.

He turned more from surprise than pain. His fingers came away from the assumed wound blue. When he looked at Crowley his fingers were red and he was making quite a face.

"It's paint," the demon stated the now obvious.

"You've both been hit!" A man in camouflage complained, as he approached them rapidly. "I don't know what you're playing at, right-"

Crowley shut the man up efficiently with his favourite hell-snake face. He dropped to the ground alongside his gun.

"Well that was fun." Crowley grinned.

"Well, yes, fun for you." Aziraphale tried to get a better look at the paint splattered on his coat. "Look at the state of this coat. I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I'll never get this stain out."

Crowley walked around his angel, scrutinising mostly the stain.

It was an old dance and its tune bloomed inside Aziraphale from the stomach out. With deniability as a main concern, words were not an option. You could say a lot with them, between them and even by not using them. But some things needed direct expression, no veil of words pulled over them to obscure the meaning.

Actions for one, actions spoke louder than words. A lesson that had hit home extremely painfully during the Blitz. And Crowley was a man, well demon, of action. He had always been. It had taken little prompting even back in the day to prompt Crowley into action. Aziraphale had always found it surprisingly easy. An ease he understood a lot better after the incident with the Nazis.

So it was only logical to keep finding, digging for, maybe possibly even creating opportunities for their dynamic to play out. Aziraphale loved the way Crowley would be put out by the mere thought of performing minor tasks and miracles. The fluster hidden badly under a thin layer of bluster when he thanked his demon was even better.

Aziraphale was ready to return as he gave but Crowley had, in all the time they knew each other, only asked for one thing ever. Aziraphale could not really blame Crowley for not repeating that exercise, seeing how it had taken him 105 years to obligate. The thought of the tartan thermos full of holy water sitting somewhere in Crowley's flat was still making him uneasy.

Not quite as uneasy as wondering what Crowley got out of the whole arrangement. If it had been just the successful tempting of an angel spiel, Crowley would have let off decades ago. He had not. With the same persistence he returned into orbit around Aziraphale, drawn by the same forces that kept the angel circling him.

So there had to be something in it for him. Maybe one day Aziraphale would find out. He sure hoped so because the face the demon would make when finally presented what he expected from Aziraphale unprompted and for free would be spectacular. Until then, he would keep going as they did, even if it was only two more days. I had to be longer than that. There was so much the two of them had never-

"You could miracle it away." Crowley took the second step in their dance.

Aziraphale felt radiant, ready to smile. Of course he did not. The choreography required steps, procedure needed to be observed. Maybe it was ridiculous to still crave reassurance after all those years. Nevertheless, he wanted it. To know, Crowley cared. It was even more important than deniability.

It wasn't really asking, if Crowley still loved him because _of course_ he did. Anything else was unthinkable. Especially in the vicinity of the demon who immediately caught on the change of mood and _pried_. No, this was better. Aziraphale used the rising panic at the unthinkable thought to frown as he spoke. "Yes, but, well, I would always know the stain was there." He turned the paint-covered shoulder towards Crowley. "Underneath, I mean."

The next step was taken. Aziraphale didn't take his eyes off Crowley.

The demon did the barest imitation of hesitation. A sound of objection, maybe another half one and that tell-tale tilt of the head. The dance neared its finale and it was difficult indeed to hide the knowing, happy, elated, feeling suffusing Aziraphale's whole being.

Then Crowley leaned in, actually leaned closer, and blew on the coat to miracle the paint away. He didn't have to do that. Usually Crowley just snapped his fingers to make things happen, but this was different. This was special. This was reassurance that they were still on their own side, together.

Was the stain still there, underneath? Maybe. But now it was sealed tightly under a layer of Crowley's magic that tingled on Aziraphale's shoulder. It was worth getting spray painted from head to toe for.

"Oh, thank you." Aziraphale let the dammed joy rush free. It was so good, _so good_ , to finally smile, beam at Crowley and affirm that yes, their side, together. All the harder to tear his gaze from the demon's face, to look away from what this was all about. Aziraphale tried, failed and stole another glance.

Crowley was wearing _that_ smirk. So it was alright to smile that brightly. Aziraphale felt it in his toes, the warmth spreading from his cheeks through the whole body. He had not asked, not really, and the answer was still yes.

The renewed swagger in Crowley's walk proved that he had gotten something from this exchange as well. If not, this would have stopped ages ago, before Aziraphale even understood why it worked which would have been the greatest pity of all. Aziraphale managed to not steal another look, or two or twenty-three at his demon as he moved on.

It wasn't much. It was not even deniable any longer. But it was tried and tested, it never failed. It was the least they could have two days before the end of everything.


	9. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if it had been the other way round? Aziraphale escaped the burning bookshop to not find Crowley in his flat but the remains of Ligur?  
> [Prompted by this post on tumblr.](https://greaseonmymouth.tumblr.com/post/185797803512/okay-but-imagine-if-aziraphale-dodged-the-portal)  
> #angst  
> #alcohol abuse  
> #happy end

It was, by now, three in the morning. Somewhere. Aziraphale didn't really care where. He was also not all sure where he was but that was fine. Fine. Everything was fine. Just tickety-boo.

He groped around the ground but all bottles came up empty. So much for that. He was far from ready to sober up. Ever. Which wouldn't be such a long time now. The angel held his breath simply to keep his body from going whee in all directions at once. Or was it welp?

No, what he really needed now was alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Aziraphale stood up shakily. It was okay. Needed more sobriety than he wanted to afford. But if he kept on sitting here -

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. No good. It wasn't that the image was leaving him, at all. But with enough alcohol it was kinda distant and blurry. The puddle on the floor in Crowley's flat. The unscrewed thermos on his desk. And the demon nowhere in sight.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. It had been only a matter of time until hell found out they had displace the Antichrist. Crowley- oh what did it matter? Shit had been fucked up and Crowley had paid the price. Because he, because he, because he- Aziraphale exhaled.

There was so much he had done and had not done or not done in time. It was a good thing, really, that the word was about to end. It would stop him from thinking about it. Stop him from remembering. Generally just stop him completely. At least, that was the plan.

He should not have given Crowley the Holy Water. And nicked from Heaven itself no less. What was the worst that could have happened if the demon robbed a church? Taken for a looney. He'd live. He'd _live_. Whereas now he didn't. Aziraphale grabbed the nearby fence and steady himself.

He wasn't even sure if there was enough alcohol in the world to drown himself. At which point would he just discorporate, anyway? He stumbled on. The first shop wouldn't sell him anything. Neither did the second. As a result the third just had to live with the miraculous exchange of goods for  money unseen by any of the staff.

Two bottles of scotch. That would do for the beginning. He could always get more. What did it matter? The end was nigh. With any luck, he would be too far out of it to notice. Looking up, Aziraphale realised he had walked to the band stand. Oh well. This place would do as well as any of them. He flopped down inside, leaning his back heavily against the metal.

I have killed my best friend. My only friend. My -

He stopped and forcefully unscrewed the first bottle. No good dwelling on that now. Whatever they had been, what Aziraphale was right now was utterly alone. With only himself to blame for it. It was obviously way too much to ask that he be there for his friend one time. Only once. After all that time, once would have been enough.

Or at least a good start. Now it was the end instead. He took a long swallow. It was unthinkable that Crowley should be gone. He had always been there, since the very beginning. And always when Aziraphale was in trouble. Closing his eyes, Aziraphale tried to overlay the image of Crowley's wet flat floor with other ones.

It didn't work. Each memory just screamed at him. That he had failed his one friend. The one person in this bloody place who understood, who cared, who wanted to be there. Aziraphale tried to shake the images away, splattering some of the scotch in the process. Yeah, completely useless. Not even able to drink. He cradled his head in his arms.

"You wanna leave here  _now_."

Aziraphale snorted at the familiar drawl and looked up. Stars, was he plastered. Seeing things, especially Crowley, totally wasted himself, brown paper-bag in on hand, swaying as he glared at him.

"There's nowhere to go," Aziraphale whispered. Regret shot up through his spine, making him wince. Nowhere to go indeed. Even the stars were out of the question. How it would hurt, floating among them for eternity, each of them a painful pinprick reminder of what he had lost? Maybe just punishment. Not taking the cowards way out.

"Aziraphale?" The tone was full of the softest disbelief.

"Who else would I be? An aardvark?" The angel quipped. He really needed to stop hurting himself so. It wasn't that he didn't deserve it after all he'd done. But Crowley's memory sure deserved better. "Sorry."

The Crowley apparition stumbled closer and dropped to the ground before him. "Is that really you?"

Long fingers lifted dark glasses to reveal eyes that Aziraphale would have given anything to see again seconds ago. Would give anything to see again and again even now.

"Crowley?" he trusted his voice as little as his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking because you're dead." The demon put the paper bag down gingerly. "You?"

"Same." Aziraphale put the scotch down carefully. "You are – not dead?" There was too much hinging on that question. Aziraphale swallowed though his mouth was dry.

"Are you?" The demon steadied himself on Aziraphale's knee feeling decidedly solid.

"I was- I mean," Aziraphale stuttered. "There was holy water on the floor and the thermos was open and the leftovers-" he broke off taking a rattled breath.

Crowley's hand tightened around his knee. "That was Ligur, actually. But also," he hesitated, "your bookshop, well your bookshop- burned. Down?"

"Oh." It was a small pang compared to the pain of losing Crowley. Not losing him. Aziraphale put his hand over the demons. Definitely solid. Definitely there. "Not dead." It was barely a whisper.

"Not dead," Crowley echoed.

Aziraphale curled his finger's around Crowley's wrist and pulled impulsively. The demon toppled and didn't resist. When his face rested against Aziraphale's shoulder the angel clamped his arms around him. So small, so fragile. Aziraphale was almost afraid to break him. But he could not let go. The faint scent of hair gel and cologne, the soft crunch of expensive fabric under his hands.

_Not dead._

And then, the fierce grip of fingers digging into his side as Crowley returned the embrace. A drowning man holding on for dear life not knowing he was holding on but to another drowning man. It was difficult to breathe, keep the relief, the emotions, the unadulterated joy within bounds a human body could handle.

_Not dead!_

Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley's hair. Yes, they would have to sober up soon and prevent the end of the world. But for now this was all that matted. Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.


	10. Flashes of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if angels can feel love like we feel wind?  
> [Inspired by this post on tumblr](https://greenbergsays.tumblr.com/post/185791799558/legitimately-this-is-my-first-and-only-thought)

It is not something Aziraphale ever mentions. For an angel it is the normal state of being. Angels are beings of love, made out of love, made to love, and most definitely, to feel love. It was a defining quality. It came as naturally as breathing. Also, Aziraphale thought that Crowley would be mightily embarrassed if he knew.

Aziraphale was not sure when he noticed. Certainly not for some time. There was a lot of love sloshing around on earth after all. Wayward waves could hit him any moment. It was rather refreshing really. Humans had such a capacity for love and no matter how times turned out, they did make copious use of it.

It was one reason Aziraphale had not closed his doors to customers completely. Everybody who came into his shop was overflowing with love for old and exquisite books. It had suffused the place over time, accumulating layer after layer of love over the place like a thick patina. Crowley's presence barely registered there. But it did register and to feel that over the humongous amount of love stacked in every corner of it was saying something.

It was one reason Aziraphale enjoyed the demon's company in his own place so much. It was comfortable, not as overwhelming, not as assaulting and yet strong and reassuring. Out in the open, in the unguarded world of humans, standing beside Crowley was akin to standing next to a sandstorm. Well, inside one to be honest. It was not chafing painfully but there was no escaping the ever-present overflow of love.

Of course, it was appealing, terrifying, amazing to see so much love coiled up in one demon. And oh, how Crowley did love this world. All of it, its plants, its animals, its humans, especially the humans. It was a fault in a demon, more likely than not, to love so unguardedly and freely. And how much Crowley loved him.

It was an embarrassing thought and turned the angel's cheeks pink. Loved by a demon. How very ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as returning the affection. It was a constant matter of struggle and distress to Aziraphale. Because was he not an angel and meant to love all God's creation? Was Crowley not part of that creation even now?

And what about that insistent voice nagging at the back of the angel's mind that, in case all justifications ran out, fuck heaven? Aziraphale knew heaven in all its huge and empty glory of vast, sterile corridors and empty spaces. For all his attempts, the angel had disagreeable difficulties feeling love up there.

So he stayed away, tucked away in his little, love-drenched corner of the world. A corner that only improved by getting steam-rolled every now and then by Crowley's approach. Maybe one day he would tell the demon. Just to see how he took it.

Maybe.


	11. Absence of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More a think-piece than a ficlet, I'm afraid.  
> What if demons can still feel love, or, more precisely, it's absence?

It was part of the punishment. It was inherent part of what falling meant, aside from being cast out from heaven, thrown down into the darkest pit. You were also cast from the Lord's love, from the omnipresent warmth saturating heaven an all of the angels within.

Only the sudden lack made Crowley realise that heaven had not just been a place, a hierarchy, a group effort. It was a state in which they all had been engulfed completely in love. The love of God, of the other angels.

It was the worst, coldest and loneliest feeling, impossible to imagine before it hit home. And it did and keep hitting you over the head second after second, moment after moment, a bucket of icy water crushing down over your whole being. God's love was _gone_. Your fellow angels' love – vanished within the closed doors of heaven.

Oh, you did not lose the ability to feel love. You still felt it and that was, quite frankly worse. Because you did not feel it any longer. It was robbed from you, torn from your essence that never knew this emptiness. It was not made to know it either.

So there was pain instead of love, persistent pain for nothing took the place of the love you lacked. Not the angels who were supposed to love all of God's creation, not the fellow demons, each of them too stuck in their own pain and loss.

The world now was full of love. It should have helped. It did not. Crowley felt the love humans had for each other, their lives, companions, possessions. But it was love not directed at him. And it hurt, like pressing a warm item against a fresh burn.

It was what had drawn Crowley to Aziraphale that day in the garden. That lonesome angel standing on the eastern wall, watching the first humans leave. Just a ripple, a small breeze of warmth that did not hurt. An aberration. As he had slid up to the angel, the feeling had not wavered. And there it had been, the truly miraculous thing: an angel actually loving all God's creation.

Oh, the conviction had stuttered when Crowley addressed him. But not for long. Bright eyes allowing a glance at the hard core determined to love indeed all of God's creation. All of it. No exceptions. No matter the cost.

(A cost that was very high considering what God did to his creation from time to time and caught up in his own loyalty, Aziraphale suffered it ins silence. God tasked him to love his creation and so he would, even if the Lord decided to maybe not to.)

But there he was, the angel who could look at a demon and still love him as a part of God's creation. It was a diffuse, undirected kind of love, admittedly. A blanket statement. But just as a blanket it made a difference to the freezing man alone in the cold.

Crowley clung to it.

And when it changed over time, oh how it changed! Targeting him personally instead of the general everything that God somehow managed to put into existence. That hit home where the emptiness lay.

It was only natural to love Aziraphale in return. And the angel did have to know, if a demon's love still counted for anything, if it even registered as something as good as love. Crowley did not ask.

Was it painful? Perhaps. But it restored, for a short while, the memory of what had been, who he had been. It was, maybe, just an imitation of what heavenly love was. But it was all encompassing, safe and unfaltering. Crowley would not have given it up for all the love of heaven.


End file.
